


he makes me shine like diamonds

by lakunae



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-23 19:46:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1577336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lakunae/pseuds/lakunae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Future AU</p><p>The year is 2486, and visual circuitry artist Steve Rogers is looking for someone new.</p>
            </blockquote>





	he makes me shine like diamonds

 Steve slid his watch against the glowing square and the door slid open. Electronic music pumped from the ceiling as he surveyed the place. He’d never been to a Bot Bar. He knew Tony had, even had picked up a synth or two, but Steve never had any interest.

Dancers were everywhere. He surmised that most were synths, and tried to look at them in the least lecherous way possible. A synth dancer walked by, carrying a tray of drinks and smiling at him. She brushed curly black hair behind her ear, displaying the trademark of a synth: her left iris was a sharp violet, which would identify her via retinal scanner.

“Good evening sir,” she purred. “Let me get you a drink.”

“I’m fine, miss,” Steve said, smiling kindly at the synth.

“Can I help you with anything? Are you looking for a synth or an orgo?”

“I don’t know what I’m looking for,” Steve said with a shrug.

“Call me if you need me. Diana," she said, holding her wrist out. Steve touched his watch to hers, and smiled.

He passed through the crowd of orgo patrons. Most orgos, or organic (human) life forms did not bring their synths to a Bot bar. Steve was surprised by the atmosphere. It wasn’t as skeevy as he’d anticipated; from the stories Sam had told him of his cousin’s Bot Bar, he was very hesitant to come.

The music shifted and slowed, the electronic beat turning down as the dancers shifted gears (some of them literally) to more move slowly, lights turning from orange to purple. A glint of something caught his eye, and he turned to identify it.

There was a man standing in a sea of patrons, moving slowly. The glint he had caught was… a metal arm? Was he synth or orgo? A few years back there’d been a craze among synth designers to show a bit of hardware, but the style now was definitely as orgo-looking as possible. Most of them were so close to orgo that it was impossible to tell they were synth until you saw their eyes.

He moved closer to the dancer. His arm was a brilliant silver, with a large red star painted on the shoulder. Steve was so busy trying to figure him out that he didn’t notice the man had caught him staring.

“You’ve been looking an awfully long time,” the man said, gently breaking himself from the circle of patrons. He was almost as tall as Steve, with shoulder length brown hair. His eyes were both blue. Not a synth.

“You’re something to look at,” Steve said honestly. He gestured. “Your arm. It’s very unique.”

The man smiled. “Special tastes. I’m sure some people have one.”

None of the other dancers in the bar had caught Steve’s attention like the man with the metal arm. “Do you- I don’t really know how this…?”  
“Do you want a private room?” the man asked.

“Will you come?” Steve blurted. The man laughed.

“No. I’ll just let you sit in there for a few minutes. The couches are really comfortable. Yes, I’m coming,” he said, and this time his smile reached his eyes. He followed the man (resisting the urge to reach out and grab his metal hand) until they reached a hallway with a series of rooms. The man pulled a key out of his pocket and unlocked one of them.

The room _was_ nice. There was a potted plant (really?) by the wall and a large plush couch. A small nightstand had several bottles of water resting on top.

The man held out his wrist. Steve was confused, until he realized he was supposed to swipe. To _pay._ What he was paying for, he wasn’t sure yet.

“What’s your name?”

“What do you want to call me?”  
  
“Uh, your name?”

“It’s Bucky,” he said sheepishly, brushing his hair out of his face. “What a stupid name, right?”

“I didn’t expect you to have a normal name,” Steve said with a smile. “Will you come sit next to me? I just want to talk to you.”

If this was a weird request, Bucky didn’t act like it. He sat a comfortable distance from Steve, crossing his legs.  
  
“I’m Steve,” he said, reaching out his hand. Bucky shook it with his organic hand. “Can you- if it’s not too much, why do you…?”

“The arm?”  
  
“Yeah.”

“It’s not too much. Few years back, I was living out here with some friends. We were into some bad shit. But when you’re that young, you feel like you’re going to live forever, you know? Anyway, our big thing was racing. Lightcycles, you know? There was this one specific model; no one in our crew had one, and they were really expensive. Not many made. Anyway, a man who lived down the street from the shop I worked in had one. I watched it drive by every day; sometimes he drove it, but most of the time his synth drove it, probably to visit him at work. He had this beautiful synth; long tan legs and blonde hair. Gorgeous. Anyway, the one day I was high on something and walking home from work when I saw the synth on the bike. I was kind of a good-looking guy back then, so I was able to call it to drive over to me. It got to me and I punched it in the face. It fell off the bike and was obliterated by a truck. I tried to hop on the cycle and drive it away, but I got caught, obviously.” He smiled wryly. “Punishment for stealing is losing a hand, you know? Well, the guy whose bike it was really loved that synth. It was beyond repair; they couldn’t access any of the data. She was gone. He was devastated, and very rich. So he talked to the courts and got them to take the whole arm. I got a choice; prison or military service. I picked the service.”

“That’s why you have the red star,” Steve said.

“Bingo. All convict soldiers have the red star tattooed on their left deltoid. I don’t have a left deltoid anymore,” he said with a bitter smirk, “so they painted it on in weapons-grade paint. I served for five years, got out, and couldn’t find a job. That’s why I’m here.”

“Shit, Buck,” he said, the nickname slipping out. “Bucky,” he sad. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Bucky said with a smile. “Anyway, that’s enough talking for me. Might as well put my mouth to better use,” he said, lowering his voice.

“This… Bucky… I don’t think…”  
  
“What do you want, Steve?” he asked.

“Can I draw you?”  
  
Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Draw me?”  
  
“Yeah,” Steve said, pulling a sketchbook out of his bag. “I’ve drawn my roommate more times than I can count. My best friend, too. My roommate Natasha suggested I go to a Bot Bar and draw some of the synths there.”

Bucky threw his head back, laughing. “You want to draw me. Okay, Steve, that’s great. Go ahead and draw me. What do you want me doing?”  
  
“Just sit where you are,” Steve said excitedly. He began sketching the lines of Bucky’s body.  
  
“This is nice,” Bucky said. “You do realize I’m still charging you the standard fare, right?”  
  
“Of course,” Steve said absentmindedly, outlining the metal arm. “I’m glad you’re comfortable. I didn’t think I’d be drawing an orgo dancer. I mean you figure with synths, they pretty much are comfortable with everything. But this is even better. People move differently than synths. People move differently; less uniformly. My neighbor Sharon’s an independent synth, but even drawing her isn’t the same as drawing Nat or Sam.”

“There are a couple of us here, but many more synths. I figure the boss keeps me around because I’m something in between the two, what with this metal atrocity.”

He stared at Bucky’s face, judging the ratios of his features. “I feel more naked than I do when I’m servicing someone,” Bucky joked, a flush reaching his cheeks. “I usually don’t get looked at this much.”

Steve smiled. “You’ve got a beautiful face.”

“You’ve already paid, Steve. No use in buttering me up.”

“I mean it! Purely from an objective, artistic standpoint. It’s something about the relaxed look in your eyes, your cheekbones… probably your lips, actually.”

Bucky looked like he was about to say something, but kept his mouth closed and stared off. It shook both of them up when his watch buzzed.

“Gotta get back out there,” he said with a sad smile. “Lemme see what you did.”  
  
Steve handed him the sketchbook. “Holy shit,” Bucky breathed. “Wow. You’re really good.” He ran his hand along the page, tracing the line of his hair and his metal arm. “You’ve made me look a lot less monstrous,” he said quietly. “This is great, Steve. Really. I wish I could keep it.”

“I could make you a copy, if you want. Maybe come back another night and draw you again?”

Bucky smiled. “I think I’d like that.”

 -

Two nights later, Steve returned to the Bot Bar. He caught Bucky right away, who automatically led him to the private room. “Here,” Steve said, handing him a piece of paper. Bucky eagerly unfolded it.

“It still looks so good,” he said, voice charged with excitement. “It makes me feel good to look at it.”  
  
“That’s the kind of thing artists like to hear,” Steve said with a smile.  
  
“I’m so tired, Steve,” Bucky said. “I was up all night taking care of my dog. I almost called off work today, but I didn’t know if today would be the day you’d be coming back. So I didn’t.”

Steve felt his chest twinge. “How about you take a nap on the couch? I can draw you sleeping. I always try to draw Nat sleeping but she says she can see me staring at her.

“Sure,” Bucky said, holding out his wrist. Steve swiped and Bucky flopped on the couch. Within minutes, he was asleep.

Steve was amazed at the changes in his face; the lines of his forehead relaxed and his lips turned up in a sleepy smile. Bucky slept for an hour before his watch buzzed. “No,” he moaned. “I don’t want to.”  
  
“Look at it, Bucky,” Steve said, eager to show him the drawing. Bucky took it and grinned.  
  
“Man. I look about ten years younger when I’m sleeping. You’ve got my weird sleeping face just right; my ex always said I looked like a clown when I slept. Steve this is great. You’re really good.” He handed the paper back to Steve. “Will you come by again? Maybe we can draw something else. Maybe I’ll draw you!”

\- 

Steve visited the Bot Bar at least once a week to take Bucky into the back room and draw with him. He drew Bucky laughing, Bucky smoking a cigarette, and Bucky draining a mug of coffee. After he’d finished the sketches, he’d show them to Bucky, who insisted on going through all of the ones they’d done so far. Steve noticed that as the sketches got more and more recent, Bucky’s face had changed. His eyes were less sunken, and his face seemed a lot more relaxed. He was smiling in most of the newer sketches. His eyes had a mischievous glint.

One night, about six weeks after Steve’s first visit, Bucky had an idea. “I know how you can draw me this time,” he said. He pulled his white t-shirt over his head. “Figure studies, you know?” he asked, unbuckling his belt and sliding it out of the belt loops. “Don’t most artists need to practice that?”  
  
“Sure,” Steve said, fighting the blush that was racing up his neck. Of course Bucky had no qualms about getting naked. He slid his pants down and grinned at Steve.

“Where do you want me?”

“Um… uh jeez, Buck, just… lay on the couch or something.”

“Okay,” Bucky said casually.

“No, that’s too weird,” Steve said. “Just sit up.”

“Okay.”

Steve began to sketch the broad lines of his shoulders, and before long he was able to tune out any other emotions towards anything but drawing. The scarring from where the metal arm connected to Bucky’s golden skin was particularly difficult to draw, but unlike anything else Steve had ever seen.

“It’s weird for someone’s eyes to spend so long looking at my body,” Bucky commented. “Usually it’s someone’s mouth, you know?”

“Um, what?” Steve asked, breaking from his reverie.  
  
“Most people don’t spend as much time looking before they touch.”

His tone was so casual that Steve didn’t know how to interpret it. Bucky groaned and stood up.

“This is the part where I’m coming onto you,” he said, walking toward Steve and gently taking his sketchbook and pen. “This is the part where you blush and say something about how you don’t want to, and ‘oh Buck why did you have to mess this up’ or ‘I just like to draw’ or ‘I can’t fuck someone with a metal arm.’”

He placed the sketchbook on the nightstand. “So which excuse is it?”

“I don’t know if I can be with someone like that if I know they aren’t… emotionally involved,” Steve muttered. “I guess I get too invested in my feelings.”  
  
“Jesus do I have to draw you a map, Steve?” Bucky said. “You look at these pictures you’ve been making of me, and what do you notice? I get happier. Each and every one. I look forward to seeing you every week. We talk and we laugh and you don’t expect nothing from me. I love it. You swipe your watch but I never charge you. Hell,” he said, unfastening his watch and sliding it off his wrist. “I don’t need it. I don’t care when it’s gonna buzz. I’m head over heels for you, Stevie. And I know you don’t want some old ex-con dancer from some Bot Bar in New Brooklyn, but I’m gonna go crazy if I’m laying naked over here and your hands aren’t on me.”

Steve slid his hands through Bucky’s hair and pulled his mouth into a kiss. “You think I’m not crazy about you too?” he breathed against his neck. Bucky sighed happily and positioned himself in Steve’s lap, his head falling back as the artist trailed kisses down his neck. “You think I can draw your face over and over without losing my goddamn mind? Jesus Buck, I wake up at three in the morning and can’t get back to sleep until I’ve drawn you. Your face, your hair, and your mouth, God, your _fuckin’_ mouth.”

“Artists aren’t supposed to get involved with their models,” Bucky teased.

“Hmm. You’re not leaving me a choice, though, are you?”

“You sound like you’re going to eat me alive,” Bucky sighs into Steve’s hair.

“I am,” Steve said, shoving Bucky onto his back on the carpet floor. “Don’t touch,” he warned, beginning to leave slow, lingering kisses down his neck. He sucked bruises into his collarbone and raked his teeth over his nipple. Bucky’s hands flexed and his metal fingers tore through the carpet. “Don’t touch, you’re being so good,” Steve nuzzled into his hipbone. “So good,” he sighed, kissing the inside of his thighs.  
  
“Steve,” Bucky breathed, metal hand grabbing the table leg of the nightstand. “Please.”

“I’m trying,” Steve said with a small laugh. “But you taste so good, I can’t stop.”

Bucky moaned and arched his back, and Steve steadied him with a hand on his stomach. “Okay, babe. Okay.” He wrapped a strong hand around Bucky’s erection, leaning up to kiss him. Bucky sighed into his mouth, and Steve couldn’t help biting on his lower lip. “What do you want?” Steve asked huskily. “What do _you_ want?”

“Steve… your mouth, please, your mouth,” Bucky begged. Steve kissed the bridge of his nose. Sliding down his body, he gave one last kiss to the hollow of Bucky’s hipbone and wrapped his lips around his cock. Bucky’s hand tightened on the nightstand leg, splintering the wood. “Oh God, _Steve_ ,” he sighed, wrapping his organic hand in Steve’s hair. “Please. Don’t… oh,” he sighed, moving his hips to match the movement of Steve’s mouth. Steve stared up at him, watching the dancer’s neck flush and his teeth bite into his bottom lip. He couldn’t tear his eyes away. “Steve I’m gonna-“ Bucky whined, metal hand snapping the leg of the nightstand. Bucky raised his hips one last time before Steve could feel him coming in his mouth, though he found himself distracted by staring at Bucky. His neck, his _face,_ his mouth… he’d never seen anything more beautiful than Bucky in the throes of an orgasm and he closed his eyes, trying to save the image so he could capture it on paper later.

\- 

The following night Steve was lounging on his bed in his apartment, sketching pictures of Bucky in a new, smaller sketchbook he’d be able to keep on his person. Natasha came in, brandishing one of his larger sketchbooks.

“Hey Rogers,” she said smugly. “I got a question for you.”

“Shoot, Nat.”

She sat on his bed and flipped through the sketchbook to the last page. Steve blushed; it was the half-finished picture of Bucky naked on the sofa at the Bot Bar. “I got a few questions, actually. One, who _is_ this? And two… why isn’t it finished?!”


End file.
